


you're everything, everything's you

by quqin



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idk what i'm doing, M/M, god AU, i'm bad at tagging lmao, no beta we die like tubbo in the festival, summer god dream, tgcf au, war god techno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27837139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quqin/pseuds/quqin
Summary: He thinks that he likes Dream more like this. No longer a god, but no less of a deity to Techno.(or, Dream is banished from heaven, and Techno burns down eight hundred temples for his lover.aka the tgcf inspired fic that nobody cares for, but I still wrote anyways)
Relationships: Antfrost & Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Clay | Dream/Dave | Technoblade
Comments: 73
Kudos: 715





	you're everything, everything's you

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Important disclaimer that i am only shipping their personas, not the real people!! If the original CCs ever mention explicitly that they are uncomfortable with this kind of stuff, I will immediately take this down. Please don’t shove this onto them or show it to them either!! 
> 
> 2\. This work’s inspired by tgcf: hua cheng burning down the shrines of the thirty three gods who hurt xie lian, and also that final wagon scene, like, oh god techno just fits hua cheng’s person sO MUCH pls, and it’s also???? kinda??? Inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphoses hehe poetry pog
> 
> 3\. I didn’t exactly want to write anyone from the smp as like,,,the ‘bad guy’ so I’ve just made up a random god called Ager, which means “field” in latin, and it’s partly where the word “agriculture” comes from C: random trivia and etymology yeehaw 
> 
> 4\. Also ik people will be like “gods are immortal u can’t kill a god” shhhhhh okay for the sake of this au just imagine it so that only gods are able to kill other gods, aka mortals can stabby stab them and it won’t do anything
> 
> 5\. I got. So. incredibly burnt out while writing this. So you can imagine how much i struggled with writing this and shoving it out, but here I am. It’s probably why some transitions aren’t so smooth and in general is a bit lacklustre and not as refined compared to some of my previous works idk akjsdnfskfsdf i think i will throw up tho if i need to work on this for any longer, so here we go
> 
> I hope u enjoy reading this!! <3

There is gold hanging in the air between them.

It drapes over them like gossamer silk, balmy and cool, as the wind blows and sweeps the flowers around them to raise them into a whirlwind of magnolia petals. The wind blows, and Dream looks up at his lover with shining chartreuse eyes and goldenrod in his hair, pink flushing his cheeks and the beginnings of a tender smile curving up on the corners of his lips. 

There are calloused fingers carding through his honey hair, touch softer than what you would expect from the god of war, and a touch that you should never expect to have the honour of feeling unless you were the god of summer. Techno crushes the skulls of his enemies under his sable boots without so much as a light step, yet handles the gilded god who had his head on his lap with a breath-taking gentleness, cradling him in his hands as if trying to shield a summer dove from the harsh grip of winter and famine. 

Dream thinks that it is only here, in their bucolic garden, with Techno by his side and golden silence blanketing them in diaphanous folds, that he can fully relax and let the tension seep from his muscles. He tugs at the high collar of his robes, loosening the fabric to let the warm breeze whisper against his neck, and there is a sigh of relief that escapes him as he lets his eyes flutter shut, rays of sun dusting them with speckles of colour like dragonfly wings. 

“Tired?” Comes the baritone voice of his lover, and Dream hums quietly, not opening his eyes as he nuzzles slightly into the war god’s hand. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “There’re a lot more believers and prayers that come in than when I first started, I wouldn’t say I’ve had much of a break recently.” There’s a sympathetic rumble from Techno, and Dream turns so that he can wrap his arms around the elder’s waist, breathing in quietly the scent of home. He thinks that he has missed this, being able to curl up on the flower-tangled bench in their Eden, with love and eternality in the war god’s touches.

“The consequences of being too good, I guess,” Techno teases him, and Dream opens an eye to glare at him jokingly, a chuckle making his shoulders quiver. “Shut up,” he says, “I didn’t ask for this. I’ve been getting enough shit from Ager too, the bastard won’t stop sneering at me every time I see him. It’s not even my fault that so many of his worshippers converted into mine when I didn’t even ask for it.” 

“What a flex, sweetheart. He’s just jealous he’s not as pretty as you.” 

Dream laughs, emerald eyes glinting with mirth as he opens both to gaze up at garnet irides of adoration. “You’re so dumb.” 

“You didn’t disagree.” 

“No,” he says, “I didn’t. How do I argue against the truth?” 

There’s a light flick on his forehead as the summer god giggles, sunbeams spilling from his mouth while the two banter leisurely. He no longer gets to enjoy many afternoons like these, but Dream thinks that he would like to. He thinks that he would like to spend more midsummers like these, with wildflowers blooming and filling the air with their sweet scent, with the whispering of trees rustling with the breaths of wind, with warm rays of luminescence filtering down through the leaves above them to dapple his dandelion hair with speckles of white light, and most of all, with Techno beside him, grounding and safe in the way he brackets Dream’s smaller figure so securely. 

There is the rich scent of mulberry wine and salted caramel in the air as he dozes off. 

\---

Techno watches the sleeping god with fondness settling in his crimson eyes. 

The small crease previously between his brows is now smoothened out as the summer deity slumbers, gauzy green veil that covers the lower half of his fluttering lightly with the zephyr, and his scent of glory, gold and flowers is sweet in the air. Dream lets out a small noise before he turns on his side, shifting slightly to let his limbs dangle off the edge of the chair much like a napping cat. Like this, slightly unkempt and unbothered, yet still gorgeous in his divinity, he looks just like Techno remembers him, the golden prince he was before he ascended. Techno missed him a little, and missed his previous luxury of being able to relax like this more often, with his lover on his lap and time lulling to a stop, before he too had risen to become the god of war. 

He unclips the red cloak that hangs from his shoulders, shifting only slightly in order to drape it across his sleeping lover. The clement air is mellow, and curls around the blonde-haired boy, but the war god does not want the younger to suffer a chill even in the slightest, should it discomfort him and wake him from his rest. He does not know when an adoring smile had been painted across his face, but Techno thinks that it is only natural to want to cherish such a treasure. 

The war god thinks that it should not be allowed, Dream should not be allowed to look at him and unclose him with the slightest of smiles, opening a feeling deep within his chest as if the summer god was opening the first rose of spring, petal by petal, touching skilfully and mysteriously. Dream should not be allowed to have kindred spirits dancing through his eyes at night when they embrace each other, wisps of smoke in the soft moonlight, nor should the stars be so small, but brilliant, bright and kaleidoscopic in his emerald irides. The power of his intense fragility should not be allowed, but the younger carries it within him anyways, proud, and Techno thinks that nothing which they are to perceive in this world can equal to his divine glory. 

He would kill for this man, this deity, he thinks. He would give up his immortality, his prestige, his everything, if it meant that the summer god would be happy. And if loving him was a sin, then he thinks that this is the most beautiful sin of life, and that he would rather be a sinner forever. 

He is just turning the next page in the novel he was absent-mindedly reading, when hurried steps catch his attention, and the war god raises his head just as the flurried figure of a brunette falls through the entrance to the garden. 

“Dream! Tubbo-”

Techno’s blood-red eyes are fixated on the newcomer before he can even finish his sentence. The god of fresh water freezes immediately at the ire that radiates from the coral-haired god’s figure. The damage is done, however, for the summer god on his lap is already stirring, rubbing his eyes slowly as he wakes. Techno gently slips his hands beneath his shoulders to help the boy sit up, golden-hair ruffled and shining like delicate cobwebs. 

“What is it, George,” Dream grouses, wrinkling his nose as he covers up a yawn, leaning his head on his lover’s shoulder as the first tendrils of sleep evaporate from him. His eyes sharpen, however, upon noticing the panic in the blue eyes of said god, and the younger promptly straightens up from where he had been slumped over before, “What’s the matter with Tubbo?” 

Techno stays silent, hand tracing circles onto his lover’s hip, trying to soothe the alarm that rolled off of him in waves at the prospect that something had happened to the young flower god. He can see George biting his lips in worry, trying to figure out how to deliver the news before the freshwater god gives up on all semblances of eloquence, and chooses to blurt it all out instead, “He’s been injured. Badly. Stinging nettles, all over. Bad’s with him right now, healing him, but Ager didn’t hold back. What do we do?” 

He feels Dream tense up beside him, mind flying to process the news, before the summer god is shooting to his feet, and is racing out of the garden in a whirl of pine, ivory and fire. George throws him one last look, before he too follows after the flaxen-haired deity, leaving Techno alone with the breeze whispering through the trees and his crimson cloak lying forlornly on the lush grass under his feet. He does not say anything as he bends over to pick it up, throwing it around his white peacoat and letting it ripple with his steps as he, too, left in pursuit of his lover.

There is worry bubbling through his system as he does so. 

\---

Dream thinks that he’s going to throw up.

He eyes the way that the young flower god thrashes in agony, pained whimpers escaping from his lips as Bad tries to soothe his angry stings, and he thinks that there is something inside of him snapping, fraying dangerously thin. There is something that rises inside of him, terrible and raging like a summer typhoon, inky clouds gathering in the horizon and heavy with fury and eager to unleash its punishment onto those who dared cross it. 

Gone is the effervescence in the younger god’s voice, the ebullience in his eyes and the soft glimmer of moonshine that dusted him with forgivingness and gentleness. Instead, there is lightning in his topaz locks and thunder in his syllables, tendrils of wrath wreathing around the deity as sage eyes blaze. People tend to forget that summer can be kind, and summer can be lenient, but that it can also be merciless in its harsh droughts and whipping hurricanes, storming across the warm, charged oceans as the forebearer of destruction. 

“Dream?” Beside him, there are pools of concern welling in George’s eyes as he eyes the way the summer god clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white and half-moon indents are etched into his palm. He can tell that there is something poisonous, something dangerous that stirs within the heavenly official’s body, lusting for vengeance and coiling around his heart like a serpent, hissing at him to do it, to punish the bastard who dared hurt those he loves. 

_He wants Ager gone. He wants Ager as far away from them as possible, he wants to destroy the god, he wants to burn him to the ground with the force of an unforgiving summer sun, he wants to have his head on a fucking pike that goddamn bastard, he wants to-_

“Stay here and take care of him. I need to go deal with something,” Dream finally manages to say, voice deathly quiet and his words an ode of ruin, before he spins on his heels and strides out of the room, robes flapping softly in the silence, like the calm before the storm. There is electricity crackling within him like the charged clouds looming in gloomy skies right before the tempest hits, and it is something that you are not able to stop. 

“Dream? Dream! Where are you going?” Panic laces the fresh-water god’s calling as the blue-clad deity rises from where he had been kneeling beside Tubbo’s bed, “Dream! Don’t do anything foolish!” Said god, however, is long gone, and there is copper left behind in the simmering air between them, burnished and bronze like arid heat waves. 

“Is he going to be okay?” Ant asks in a hushed voice, the god of animals chewing slightly on his lower lip as he looks towards the door that had been thrown open. He asks the question that is all on their minds, and Sapnap pats his arm twice, the fire god wearing an expression of uncertainty that contrasts to his comforting and certain actions, “He will be.” 

It sounds like he’s trying to persuade himself with his own words, however, and the tension in the room is palpable, only broken occasionally by Tubbo’s noises of affliction as Bad finishes up the last of the healing. “Are you sure? Maybe someone should go after him just to check, he doesn’t seem like he’s thinking clearly,” the medicine god says as he straightens up, looking around at the other deities in the room. They turn their eyes to Techno-

-only to find that the war god was long gone. 

The linen portière swayed gently in the breeze. 

\---

His footsteps echoed on the polished marble floors as he strode through the pillared halls, and even the passing servants knew better than to try and be noticed by the storming summer god. 

He had made a mistake, an underestimation. 

Dream was born in, and had the nature of the golden age: certain of the good and the true, an epoch nurtured spontaneously without coercion or laws, without the fear of punishment, and one of lives that were lived safely without protection. Summer, in the golden age, was eternal, and the gentle breezes caressed with its warm air, the flowers that flourished without being seeded, and the fields would whiten with heavy ears of corn. Sometimes, rivers of milk flowed, sometimes streams of nectar, and golden honey trickled from the green holm oak he blessed with his breath and touch. 

But unbeknownst to him, time follows the beckoning of chaos, the age of silver enveloped the tides that lapped over the deities around him. People of the age of silver, that is inferior to gold yet more valuable than yellow bronze, came, and Jupiter twisted summer, spring and autumn to leave only frigid winter, and the similar frostiness of hearts behind. And with silver, came bronze, and the bronze age brought with it people of fiercer natures, more ready to indulge in savage warfare, but not yet vicious. It is here that the blonde-haired deity should’ve noticed, he should’ve noticed the venom coiling serpentine in the depths of the garden, in the depths of his lush fields, bringing with it the temptation of glory and power. 

And really, Dream should’ve also noticed the coming of the harsh iron age, where every kind of wickedness erupted into this age of primitive natures, where truth, shame and honour vanished to be replaced with fraud, deceit, trickery, violence and pernicious desires. Gold was soon to be more harmful than the iron of this very age, where war would come and plunder. 

But the reality is that he didn’t. He did not notice the brass of Ager, the agriculture god being consumed by the gunmetal that seeped into his bones as he too gives into the lust of war, until now it is a fight between iron and gold, and Dream does not know if he can win. He does not know if he can resist the very copper glints of warfare Ager has already been enveloped by, himself, and he does not know if the gold that blesses him can withstand it. 

It certainly does not mean that he will not try, however. You can yank and crush the flowers from a gilded marigold vase, but you cannot expect to not cut your feet on the sharp edges of shattered porcelain when you try to step by. 

The flaxen-haired god throws open the painted cedar doors of the agriculture god’s palace quarters, and Ager looks up from where he had been lounging on the couch, idly flicking through a scroll. There is a sick kind of smile that eerily settles across his face upon seeing the pine-clad deity, and Dream ignores it, he ignores the way that it makes him want to tear him down from his throne to drag his dominion of reign down. 

“Why did you do it?” Dream says, voice soft yet foreboding as the constellations in his eyes turn into a snake pit. They tempt the god of agriculture to peer in, thinking that he can be conquered, that the pit can be conquered, and the summer god wants to yank him in headfirst, and he wants for his fragile neck to break on concrete. 

Said god does not reply to his question, choosing instead to take a languid sip from a steaming cup of tea, before there is a smirk that spreads across his features, and he sits up slightly, “Nice of you to drop by and visit me today, _Dream._ Fancy sitting down to have a cup of tea perhaps?” 

“Cut the bullshit, Ager,” he snarls, silk draping from his hips swishing as he takes a step forwards, “Why did you hurt Tubbo? If you have any grievances with me, then keep them with me. It is not necessary to hurt other people, when I’m the one you despise. Continue poisoning my drinks like you’ve been doing so for the past three months if you wish, but leave others out of it.”

_Calm down. Calm. Do not give him the satisfaction of seeing you angry._

He is like Aeolus, reining in his horses and the spirits of the winds, in the way that he reels in the summer rain storm that lingered across his face, Zephyrus tugging its benevolent west winds away to leave only Boreas, with his cold breath of winter, lingering from his figure. There is a sense of gratification that washes over the summer god when he sees resentment burn in murky eyes of the agriculture god, his thin lips curling with contempt as his mind whirrs for something aggravating, or even more difficult, intelligent, to say. 

“I’m not here to fight, Ager. I’m here to warn you to stay the fuck away from those who are under my protection, and those who I love.” 

“But that would be letting you off too easily for everything you’ve done, hmm?” the carob-clad deity finally said, a simper in his humming as he cocks his head to the side, “You took everything from me after all, so I think it’s only fitting that I take something, no, I take _more_ from you.”

Dream does not know how Techno manages to do it, manages to withstand the beckoning of iron and bloodshed, even if he was the god of it all. There is just something so incredibly infuriating about talking to someone who just won’t _listen_ , and it is only worse when they’re insufferably smug about it too, and Dream wants to hold a sword to his throat to _make_ him listen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he chooses to say instead, shoving the notion away, “I’ve stolen nothing from you, and you’re delusional if you think that I would even want to.” 

“Oh really now?” 

“You tell me, Ager. You accuse me of theft, but I have not been a thief of anything. What have I stolen from you?”

Ager cannot lie. His eyes can’t lie, his face cannot lie, and his figure, too, can’t lie. Dream can see his face darken like the midday sky after a summer fire, the smoke turning the air foggy-grey and hot and smelling like arid soot. It’s sour and bitter on his tongue, dangerous like cyanide. 

“My worshippers, Dream,” the agriculture god hisses finally, straightening up to uncurl like a python, “You took my believers, my glory, my fame, my _everything._ ”

_What?_

“I don’t-” 

“People used to worship _me_ for flourishing crops. They worshipped _me_ for a good harvest and good weather,” Ager growls as he stands up fully, taking a step down to stalk menacingly closer to the summer god, “But the moment _you_ came along, they all switched over like absolute fools, thinking that a fucking _summer_ god would be able to bless them with weather, with plant growth. What a joke.”

Dream cannot believe this is happening. 

He cannot believe that this is the reason why blood has dribbled from his lips after ingesting poisoned drinks. He cannot believe that this is why he has found needles in his bed, why his porcelain dishes break upon him touching them and slash at his fingers, why the god of agriculture never fails to jeer at him in passing, but most of all he cannot believe Tubbo was hurt for this petty reason. And as he watches the hickory-clad deity prowl closer to him, features twisted in scorn, he thinks that there is something within him igniting with rage, like embers burning gold from their bed of ashes. 

“You’re insane,” he says after a moment of tense silence, “I did not ask for any of their following. They did it of their own accord.” 

“Shut up.” The voice comes, soft and low. 

It’s not my fault that they chose to believe in me and what I was able to do.” 

“I said, shut up.”

“If anything, Ager, it is you who were not able enough to give them what they wanted.” 

“Shut up!”

“You grew lazy. You basked in their praise and their worship, and cared less for their actual prosperity and wellbeing. Tell me, how many times have you actually blessed their crops and growth?” 

“Shut up! Shut up! **_Shut up!_ **”

Something within the other snaps like elastic as his eyes burn, flaming beams and pillars tumbling down to form a dilapidated, smoking ruin of what once was a magnificent palace. Dream is not expecting for the wild god to lunge forwards, grabbing him by the throat to wrench him to one side and throw him against the floor. The blonde-haired boy lets out a gasp at the pain that suddenly flares up across his body, but there is no time to focus on how there is a dull ache growing in his shoulders from where they had been slammed against the cool, polished floors while he was sent sprawling, for the clammy fingers around his neck tighten, Ager’s face streaked with fury. 

“Gods, you’re just this perfect, heavenly official aren’t you?” Ager snarls fiercely, as Dream thrashes in his grip to try and throw him off, “You’re never wrong, are you? Everyone has to kiss your feet and praise you, huh?”

The summer god’s hands fly up to the fingers fastened around his neck, squeezing and bruising the honey skin harshly while the younger tries to kick in vain - his legs have been pinned down - and the god of agriculture’s grip does not loosen even when Dream lashes out with a hand to slap him. In fact, it only seems to make him even angrier, pressing down with a renewed vigour as the emerald-eyed god’s vision begins to splinter into kaleidoscopic fractures and he can feel himself weakening. 

“G-get o-off-” he chokes out, but Ager is too enveloped in hellfire to hear, and his mind is kicking itself into overdrive as he desperately tries to think of how to escape. He fumbles around blindly for a weapon of some sort to injure the rabid man, just enough to get him off of him and to run, but his hands meet nothing but cold floor and hopelessness. 

“You’re so selfish, all high up your horse and think that just because you have more worshippers, that you can steal everything away from me!” the deranged god spews out, “You’re nothing but a fake, a thief, a _cheater_!” 

His world keeps getting hazier, dissecting itself into odd fragments of vision and broken images of a pulsating mirage. His hearing felt oddly dislocated, as if his mind had retreated to a far off place, and the thundering cacophony of the elder god’s yelling was a mere murmur in the back of his skull. There are inky waves lapping at the edges of his distorted vision, black waters rising like high tide under the moonlight to envelop him in their silent crashing, and Dream can feel himself wanting to give in, wanting to give into the ocean deity’s beckoning. 

“I’ll kill you! Goddamnit, die!” 

_Live live live live live-_

“G-get off me!” 

As a last resort, he strikes Ager on the jaw to momentarily buy time, before he’s reaching for the only thing he can think of, yanking out the gilded hairpin that held his veil up, diaphanous seafoam silk fluttering to the ground as he surges upwards in a fit of hopelessness, and blindly stabs out with the golden ornament. He feels it connect, feels the way warm blood rushes out to coat his hands, and hears Ager’s shout of pain before the other god is rolling off of Dream, crimson liquid gurgling at his throat and bubbling beyond his thin lips. 

The summer god falls over onto his elbows and wheezes for air, dishevelled and feeling the oxygen rush through his caving chest, eyes squeezed shut while ambrosia is heavy on his tongue in the way he is finally able to breathe. He coughs, eyes tearing up as he sucks it in greedily, heart thrumming in his chest like the gallops of wild mustangs storming across plains, before finally, the sun rises and the tides of ink retreat in the form of returning vision.

He freezes, and wishes that it didn’t. 

Not even a metre away, Ager lies motionless on the floor, body eerily still. There is a rivulet of metallic merlot liquid that pools underneath him, and his features are still frozen on one of twisted rage, yet also one of shock and disbelief. 

The hairpin jabbed into his neck glinted gold, and under the light, iron too. 

He shrieks as he realises what he has done. 

\---

A haunting wail pierces the air as Techno rounds the corner, Ager’s palace coming into his vision, and his blood goes cold. There are the horses of Ares’ chariot in his steps as the war god bursts into a run, throwing open the doors of the room and bursting in, as panic and worry digs their fingers into his vessels to turn him frigid. 

“Dream?” he calls out, breath slightly ragged and voice hoarse as he looks around the ornate room frantically. A noise startles the rose-haired god from behind, and the crimson of his cloak swishes slightly as he whirls on his feet, and his heart plummets. 

Dream is curled up in the corner, hugging his knees tightly and body shaking while Techno spots merlot liquid staining the pristine pearl, pine and seafoam of his robes like a splatter of black ink against a watercolour painting. He spots the filmy silk of the summer god’s veil, discarded on the floor, stained also with darkened agate, and then notices the way his lover’s hands are tarnished with blood, and the golden hairpin in his hands too, glitter with a coating of sangria. The younger god’s hands are trembling as he grips it tightly, desperately, almost child-like in that instant, while he can hear broken murmurs of “No no no no-” spilling from the blonde-haired boy’s lips, and the image tears at the concern around Techno’s heart, squeezing it in the process. 

“Dream,” he says, softly, carefully, tenderly, as he takes a step forwards, and said god lifts his tear-streaked face to connect gazes with the war deity, disintegration in his eyes, splinters in his voice, “Techno- I-I- please I d-didn’t m-mean to-” 

The morganite-haired god steps forwards, falls onto his knees as he pulls the quivering boy into his arms, embracing him tightly and running a hand through his curly flaxen locks while shushing him kindly, gently rocking them from side to side. Dream is shuddering in his arms like a leaf, like blades of grass waving wildly from the gusts of a typhoon, words cascading out of his mouth like an unstoppable waterfall, “I c-couldn’t get him o-off me a-and I couldn’t b-breathe please i-”

“Shhh, Dream, it’s okay. I’m here.” he murmurs, and he thinks that there is something cracking in the cavities of his chest too as the summer god fractures in his hands. He does not know if he can fix him, if he can heal him from this irreversible pain, and Dream’s cries are like sharp glass in the way they pierce his heart with sorrow.

“I k-killed him, oh god I-” the younger babbles, breath quickening as he gasps, and Techno thinks that he, too, wants to cry with his lover. The summer god is usually sure to put on a front of certainty and bravery, taking every problem in stride with a dignified, composed air, so much that it seems like he too has forgotten that he was once human, that although he is immortal, he is still made of flesh and bone. It’s like he’s a fish, unknowing of his own tears because they mix and muddle with the waters of the crystal stream he swims down, but Techno knows - he knows of his tears, because he is in his heart, he is the bubbling brook that envelops Dream, crystalline. 

“You did it out of self defence,” he whispers, an assumption that does not need much thinking to be proven true for he knows the temper and persona of his lover, “He attacked you first.” The war god shifts to pull the emerald-eyed boy closer to his chest, to be his staple, the steady cliffs to his crashing waves, but Dream struggles feebly in his grip. 

“N-no,” he says, voice cracked and a fading wisp on the wind, “I- I’m dirty, now.” It’s quiet, and unsure, before he repeats it again, “Don’t t-touch me or y-you’ll get dirty t-too.” 

And he finally feels something hot burning behind his eyes, and he wants to fight the higher heavens for being merciless enough to hurt his beloved like this, for continuously pushing at him until he is faced with nothing but a canyon to fall back into, hard rocks to fall on, and desperately wishing for someone to catch him as his cries fade with his descent. 

“No, darling, you’re not,” he whispers, and ignores the way the younger god weakly tries to push at his chest. He will not allow for Dream to think so lowly of himself, to let their poisonous words taint his bright mind, “I’m the god of war, Dream. You cannot be more stained than me. I cannot tell you how many seas of blood these hands have been tarnished by.” 

At his words, said god of summer finally falls limp in his arms as everything seems to finally crash down onto him like the ripping of a towering tsunami wave, the weight of his actions, the weight of his pain, the weight of his experiences threatening to chain him to the ground and enslave him to their burdens. “They’re going to s-send me a-away,” the honey-haired boy hiccups quietly into the silk of Techno’s shirt, slender fingers gripping at the fabric resting on his chest in a desperate attempt to anchor himself, to clutch at the last tuft of grass that saves him from falling from grace and into an abyss. 

“I won’t let them,” Techno whispers as he cradles the tiring boy tenderly, murmuring gently into the waves of his hair, “I won’t let them. 

They stay like that for a long time. 

\---

Techno does not know if he can stop them. 

The grand court is filled with heavenly officials as they all stare down at the lone figure of Dream, standing still before the judges, his shoulders square, his mouth set in a tight line, jaw tense, head straight, chin up, like a sacrifice ready to meet his tragic destiny, walking to the edge of the cliff with all the dignity he has left. He aches to reach out to him, to be beside him, to protect him, but he is not able to do any of those things. All of a sudden, he thinks that he understands fear - it is something he does not think he has ever felt quite so intensely as he does now - but, as he gazes down at the slightly-shaking hands of his lover, he thinks that he feels fear, fear of losing his star, his sun, his summer. 

“Dream, god of summer.” the voice rings out, echoing and filling the gilded halls, held up by pillars of perfect marble and light spilling through entrance, “You are charged with the murder of Ager, the god of agriculture. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

His grip tightens on the ornate, baroque handle of the chair, carvings of dianthus flowers cold underneath his fingers. The war god wants to curse the bastards, yell at them to reveal the sins of Ager too, but he knows that it is futile - he has known that it would be for a long time. For everything the heavenly judges preach about “equality”, there is never absolute equality - one is never able to rid themselves of their biases. And for several gods, Dream was like a fly in their eyes - his sudden ascension and rise to glory was not likeable, and filled their hearts with envy. And so, they choose to fixate on the summer god’s fault for it is his only imperfection their desperate, scrabbling hands can latch onto, on his one instance of losing control, and ignore in all of their blazing visibility, the attempts on the blonde-haired god’s life by the dead agriculture deity. It does not matter if Ager had been a venomous adder - if the adder dies in an attempt to wound your enemies, you would be sure to celebrate it’s magnificent sacrifice. 

_Please,_ he thinks, and there is anger, there is pain, and there is agony suffocating his lungs as he realises that he is powerless to do anything against the injustice and bias his lover has to face. Technoblade, god of war, is losing a war for the first time. 

“No.” Dream’s voice pierces through the thick butter of the golden-speckled air like a burning knife, red-hot and slicing effortlessly through the silence, “I don’t.”

_What?_

Techno jerks his head over to his lover, eyes wild and desperate in the hopes that he will turn to look at him, to give him the answers - only to find that Dream is already looking at him.

 _“Dream? What are you doing? Tell them the truth!”_ his scarlet irides scream, but he can already feel his stomach falling at the resignation in the younger god’s eyes, embers in chartreuse depths giving their dying flicker as an exhausted smile curls up on the blonde-haired boy’s lips. His still stands straight, tall, dignified, but there are heavy boulders that have been weighing down his shoulders for too long. 

_“I’m tired, Techno. I’m really, really tired.”_ he thinks he can hear Dream’s voice murmur in his brain, and the war god makes to get up, to clamber over the railing and to-

“If that is the case, then Dream, you are hereby sentenced banishment from heaven,” the verdict is stated solemnly, and Techno thinks that it is difficult to breathe, “You will be stripped of your powers, and live your life as a mortal. Do you have any last requests or defences?” 

Dream tilts his chin up, standing glorious and divine even in his last moments of immortality, “No.” The jeers and mocking of the gods around him fade into a dull murmur, for he focuses only on the summer wind and sunlight in Dream’s hair, carrying shine around him like a cloak as he leaves the hall.

Winter comes.

\---

He burns winter. 

He sets it ablaze like an inferno, dropping the firewood as he steps back and watches the last temple become engulfed by greedy flames, polished terracotta becoming a charred and burnished black, while the elaborate paintings on the garnet-painted pillars are smoked with soot and dust. Technoblade can hear the creaking and groaning of wood, before a beam of wood falls, crashing down to the dented floor of the temple, hungry fire reaching out with gluttonous fingers to consume more. 

It’s a mesmerising sight, he thinks, as he watches the building shakes one last time, before it collapses entirely with a curl of the war god’s finger, and a breath escapes him as he turns on his heel to walk away, the crackling and songs of fire music to his ears, forming a symphony that he has already listened to countless times. 

“Wait for me, Dream,” he whispers into the night air as the shadows of the forest embrace his figure and he disappears into the treeline, “I won’t be long.” 

\----

“Technoblade, god of war,” that insufferable voice rings out as the rose-haired god stares unblinkingly, unflinching, up at the judges who seem to cringe slightly from the sheer intensity of his smouldering ruby irides, “You have been charged with arson, burning down the eight hundred temples of the sun god, the weather god, the agriculture god, and several others. Do you understand what you have done?” 

“Yeah,” he says, voice unwavering and monotonous, “A god will cease to exist when they do not have any followers or believers. By burning down those shabby temples, I have also technically committed murder because they will no longer be worshipped or receive power from incense. What else do you want me to say?” 

There is a terse silence following his words, and he thinks that he can finally, _finally_ leave, before the judges pose a sudden question. “Why did you do it, Technoblade? Do the instincts of a war god power you more than your logic?” 

“Because I wanted to, you fuckers,” he states loudly, boldly, daring and fierce with the fury of Mars as his blood-red cloak ripples. _Because they dared sneer at Dream, those lowly, unworthy bastards. Because they’re arrogant assholes who overestimate their own worth, because they dared take his summer away from him, rip him away from home._

“Are you aware of the consequences of your actions? You, too, will be sentenced to banishment from heaven and to live a mortal’s life on Earth.” They think it’s grave, it’s unfortunate and a humiliating ordeal, but instead, Technoblade wants to grin with glee. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, merlot eyes igniting like a bonfire, like the ruins of the temples he had burned only the night before, “Now shut the fuck up and get me the hell out of this shithole.”

\---

Hou Yi has already shot down nine of the ten suns, when Dream clambers upon the wagon, thanking the driver with kind words before he makes himself comfortable against the hay bale. Humming contentedly, he brings the basket of food that grew without cultivation, into his lap, smiling in satisfaction at the sight of the ripe mountain strawberries, wild cherries, blackberring that were still clinging to tough brambles, and acorns that had fallen from Jupiter’s spreading oak-tree. There are a few beads of perspiration that glisten on his forehead like morning dew, small flashes of scintilla under sunbeams, and the collar of his loose ivory shirt is tugged open to allow an autumn zephyr to caress his honeyed skin with a warm breath. 

While it was something he had not experienced in a long time, he slips seamlessly back into the nuances of mortal life. Gone are the ornate, layered robes that he used to don, replacing them instead, are simple cream blouses tucked into raven pants and slightly scuffed boots. He thinks that he has missed this - missed being able to breathe, being free. There is sunlight spilling like a waterfall over him, settling in his eyes, his golden hair, the creases of linen, the heat warming his skin to cause his eyes to close, lashes glimmering like dragonfly wings. 

He does not remember when he was last able to lose himself, ground himself in the world around him. Dream has not felt this light in a long time, since a time that far preceded the age of iron, the age of bronze, silver, and even gold. 

He has missed it. Dearly. 

He also misses Techno. Sometimes when it’s night and he feels the emptiness, the coldness of the space next to him on the bed, he thinks of Techno, and the thoughts of him surround the flaxen-haired boy, envelop him, images of him swirling around like a funnel cloud that sucks into its grasp all that it touches. Sometimes he thinks that he can hear his voice, deep, soft, and slow in his head, murmuring words of beauty, joy, friendship and everlasting love. It breaks him so painfully, and it mends him so gently, and he only mourns that the war god may hate him for leaving him alone in the expanses of the heavens above. 

There’s a bittersweet smile that curls on his lips as he blinks his eyes open, gazing up at the celestial skies, a cerulean quilt-work of chalk drawn clouds that were patched together in long sprays of cotton white, before he tugs his attention elsewhere. He perks up when he spots the fluttering page of a newspaper, peeking out from under the hay pile, and gently tugs it out to smoothen it and skim over the contents. 

“Hundreds of temples burnt miraculously overnight. Citizens do not seem to remember which god the temples were built for either,” he reads out quietly, a crease in his brows as he digested the information slowly, “Why though?” 

“They deserved it.” 

Dream freezes. 

The voice snaps him to attention, like a puppet who’s strings have been pulled, and his eyes widen at the rumble of thunder, the hum of fire, and the thick pooling of honey that spreads from the syllables, into his gut. His mouth opens in an exclamation that he refuses to let out, and it’s like his whole body is crossed by a wave of emotions, a stone thrown against the limpid surface of his composure, shaking it in concentric circles. The coos of summer doves have faded, the symphony of cicadas have quietened, the whispering of trees has silenced, and even the wind has disappeared as the world shrinks on him, the voice, and the golden flowers that pave their road, the flowers that fall into his hair. 

“Techno?” he breathes, unsure, hesitant, afraid that he was wrong, for if that was to be the case then he does not know how he will react to the disappointment that will wilt the blossoms that bloom, efflorescent, in him. In that moment, Dream does not know if he wants an answer - he would rather hope and wish like a naive child, than to be crushed by verity. 

The emerald-eyed boy does not look up, staring down at his hands resting on his lap as he hears the rustle of clothes, and the other person on the wagon shifts. He can hear his heart beat erratically within him, and his breaths come out fast and shallow. There is no reason for Techno to be here, he should be sitting on his golden throne in his palace, rich wine in hand and blood-red eyes glinting as he deals with his duties, not here. Not here in the mortal realm, on the back of a shabby wagon with hay streaked in his hair and wheat dusting copper onto his clothes, with Dream. He shouldn’t be here with Dream.

Rose-coloured locks fall into his vision as a shadow falls across him. Still, Dream does not dare to look up. He was a god once and knows of their capabilities, and he thinks that if this was just a hallucination sent to him by the deities for further humiliation, then this would surely be the most cruel penalty possible. 

“Dream.” 

He wants to cry. Why is he here? He is such a fucking fool. An unbelievable fool. 

“Dream, look at me.” 

There are onyx-gloved hands that tilt his chin up gently, touch gentle, as if the other was afraid of shattering a glass masterpiece, and the fair-haired boy finally looks up. 

“You’re so stupid,” he says, as oak leaves meet flames to start a brilliant forest fire, “Why are you here? What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be here. You should be-” His voice does not come out as shaky as he thought he would. 

“I should be here,” Techno cuts in, and the pale cotton shirt that he wears billows with the breeze, free from the confines of the heavy red cloak of a blood-stained war god, “Because I did it.” 

He doesn’t need to ask what the “it” means. 

“The temples,” Dream says after a momentary lapse into silence, and it is not a question. 

“The temples.” 

“Why?” 

The autumn air blows, but for a moment, Dream thinks that they have been brought back to summer in their garden, where it’s just them two, the susurrations of nature, and the blessings of the sun as they wrap the two up in gauzy blankets of balmy air. Techno’s hair shines silver, shines cotton-candy pink, shines cherry-blossom quartz, and it does not become shadowed by blood or merlot. Instead, it becomes a vivid coral, singing of life, and the younger wants to run a hand through his hair. 

“I was a god, Dream.” Techno utters, “But to me, you were my only god. When you were there, you were everything. And when you weren’t there, well,” the rose-haired male breathes, “Everything was you.” 

He shakes in Techno’s hold, and all of a sudden, he wants more. As a god, you do not have the space nor the luxury to cater to your own wants. Instead, you must study the way the mortal realm of your domain and the way it worked, like a body, with hands willing to hold a sword and hands willing to hold a shovel, with hands willing to hold a pen and a musical instrument and a flower, but also hands that were willing to hold those of others’. A body with streets that work like veins and with wounds that suppurate with malcontent and fear, and with a hungry stomach that digest everything and always asks for more, and with a heart, and with a head, and with two questions: would you pray to your gods? And would your gods listen? 

Dream always listened. He listened, and he listened, and he watched in the shadows, watched in the light. There was no time to taste, to speak, or to see, and even ambrosia grew bland on his tongue. The gold of his earrings grew dull from the constant chafing of voices, yet he still listened, until his hearing was ripped away from him. 

He was exhausted. He closes his eyes, and leans into Techno’s touch. 

“Your immortality,” Dream says quietly. 

“I don’t care.” 

“Your powers.” 

“They don’t matter.” 

“I-”

“You may not be a god anymore,” Techno tells him, “But I will always be your believer.”

And he sometimes thinks that it is manipulative, the way the taller uses his words. But is it really manipulation if you’re aware of it? If you willingly allow yourself to be walked into devotion by a pair of scarlet eyes that shine like bleeding sunset clouds in the horizon, and a whiff of the forest? 

“You’re so stupid,” he repeats as crystal droplets bead in his eyes and a wobbly smile paints his face with the brightness of a glorious sunrise, “Let’s go home.” 

And Techno looks at him, with gold too, shining in his hair, glistening on his chiseled cheeks, glimmering in his touch, bathed by summery love as he answers. 

“I’m already home, Dream. I’m already home.”

***

( and Techno thinks that he likes Dream more like this. 

He likes Dream in a loose shirt where he was free, where he could push it off his shoulders to kiss his collarbones and grip the honeyed skin of his hips, instead of unfurling the layers of suffocating robes that adorned him as if he was a closed-up flower. 

He thinks that he likes Dream more like this, with lighter shoulders and even lighter laughter that tinkled in the cool evening air as they share languid kisses while completing the mundane tasks of everyday life. 

He thinks that he likes Dream more like this. No longer a god, but no less of a deity to Techno. )

**Author's Note:**

> The wagon driver be like: o-o 
> 
> writer’s block is such a BITCH haha bad transitions go brrRRR also this was. Uh. this was not proofread at all. I didn’t even go over to check if everything flowed or made sense or was smooth so. Uh. yeah. 
> 
> also if i accidentally made it difficult to understand: techno burnt down every single temple of the gods who mocked dream when he was banished from heaven, bc as i mentioned in the story, gods get their powers from how many worshipper they have + the amount of offerings given, and offerings are usually given in their respective temples that were built to honour them, so by burning down the temples, techno essentially subjects them to slowly being forgotten by the mortals (bc they won’t go to the dilapidated temple to offer their gifts anymore) which, ultimately, will cause the god to fade from existence. Yeah. 
> 
> \+ if you don’t understand what i mean when Techno says “you were everything, everything was you”, the original intention is to mean that when Dream was with techno up in heaven, that he was techno’s everything (aka he was the most important thing to techno. He didn’t care if he was a god or not, he only cared if Dream was by his side or not), and when Dream was gone, that techno saw him in everything - be it the corridors they walked side by side down, the throne he would sit on with dream in his lap, the empty space on his bed where Dream used to sleep etc. 
> 
> Lmao i originally wrote Dream a lot weaker than what i finally did, like that entire section when he was arguing with Ager? He was originally supposed to be more meek, but as I was writing I was like. No. I want strong boi. He will fight tooth and nail for those he loves, he ain’t a coward. So yeah I had to scrap my plan entirely bc that threw that entire section off, and I pretty much needed to figure out the entire thing again bc it would flow differently + the dialogue would be different but???? I think I’m happier now with how I characterised him, than I ever would be, had I written him as anything less or weaker. It’s nice to have a character be taken care of, but I am also such a fan of like,,,protective and determined characters who stand up for what they believe in. And that doesn’t mean that they can’t have their moments of weakness or vulnerability either!!!!! Even the strongest person has something that breaks them but yeah that was kinda my thought process lololol i like to overshare and ramble bc i am a rat. 
> 
> That scene I think???? Also took me the LONGEST goddamn time to write, it was probably the one I struggled with the most when writing this, I think I spent like,,,,an entire week at the very least on it and it still came out shit lol. It’s so goddamn hard to write and pace arguments like that + I had shitty writer’s block which made it even more difficult, and I can tell you that writing emotional scenes when ur emotionally,,,blocked,,,,,is so damn hard to do. 
> 
> idk burnout was. real rough on me for this work and i kinda gave up at the end so i don't even know how proud of this one i am,,,,,,,anywayssssssss i don’t know how to fucking shut up so i’m sorry for the long author notes
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it <3


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